


This fellow will arise no more

by oncewewerezombies



Series: Homesmut fills [8]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Assassination, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Decapitation, M/M, Slurs, body parts as trophies, corpse kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 16:32:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6159724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncewewerezombies/pseuds/oncewewerezombies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Do you know the story of Thomas Beckett and King Henry II? Basically, they were friends and Henry II made him Archbishop of Canterbury, but they had a falling out when Beckett sided with the Pope over the King. Henry II complained to these two knights "Someone rid me of this troublesome priest!" and they took it as an order to assassinate Beckett. However, Henry II didn't mean that and he was very sad when it happened. I want the same sort of thing to happen between Kurloz and Rufioh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This fellow will arise no more

**Author's Note:**

> '...The wicked knight leapt suddenly upon him, cutting off the top of the crown which the unction of sacred chrism had dedicated to God. Next he received a second blow on the head, but still he stood firm and immovable. At the third blow he fell on his knees and elbows, offering himself a living sacrifice, and saying in a low voice, 'For the name of Jesus and the protection of the Church, I am ready to embrace death.' But the third knight inflicted a terrible wound as he lay prostrate. By this stroke, the crown of his head was separated from the head in such a way that the blood white with the brain, and the brain no less red from the blood, dyed the floor of the cathedral. The same clerk who had entered with the knights placed his foot on the neck of the holy priest and precious martyr, and, horrible to relate, scattered the brains and blood about the pavements, crying to the others, 'Let us away, knights; this fellow will arise no more.'  
> \- Lee, _This Sceptred Isle_

The four laughsassassins standing in front of him look real motherfucking pleased with themselves, as the head on the Grand Highblood's desk pools bronze blood across the paperwork he'd been working on, mouth agape and eyes somehow still surprised. One side of it had been bashed in, and there was now fucking thinkpan matter on the side of his hanging troll desk ornament. 

It was a familiar fucking head.

It wasn't a fucking head he wanted to see. 

Which it seemed, wasn't the impression the quadruple group of chucklefucks standing in front of him had had. Alright. So he'd been motherfucking sore over the fact that the lususfucking, god damn _dragon_ riding Summoner had gone into some sort of rebellion against the hemospectrum. That the quicktongued Cavalreaper who he'd raised up by his own motherfucking grasping frond after seeing him fight, take charge of his battalion after the commander fell and wipe the rest of the enemy away like he was a sniffnode wiper wielded by a overenthusiastic lusus against the snotty face of their disgusting little wriggler. It had been impressive, and worthy of lifting up. Before he'd gotten the poisonous words of the shitstirring Sufferer into his thinkpan. He'd been _real motherfucking sore_ over the whole business and he'd said so.

That didn't mean he'd motherfucking wanted this. Eventually, he was sure that the other would come back around - and besides, it gave shit a certain amount of _spice_. He'd just been bitching, but obviously the wrong fucking auricular sponges had caught heed of his idle motherfucking trashtalk about wanting to no longer be concerned with such a bugwinged motherfucker who sought to rise above his motherfucking lowly and rightful place and taken it as Messiahs blessed Gospel truthful orders, straight from his speech muscle. Orders direct and blessed from the Mirthful Throne, that a motherfucking shitblood was to be culled immediate, and then they had supposed that the one who sat in it would be pleased to have a trophy of said shitblood's skull for a remembrance.

It would have taken all four of them to take him down too.

All together, four fucking Subjuggulators of the highest order. His quick and mirthful laughsassains, four of them acting in concert to take down one fucking shitblood Cavalreaper. He was all kinds of motherfucking disappoint. Four noble clowns on one shitblood? They were even injured, at least Nitram hadn't gone down entirely without a fight, one of them had his arm in a sling and there were scratches and bruises on all of them. And now they were telling him about it as if they should be proud of it that they'd come on the dangerous rebel, the Summoner, when he was halfway out of 'coon and unarmed, dizzy with sopor, as if he should be _motherfucking pleased with them_ , as though he should be laughing and wicked _fucking joyous_. The blood spread further and further across his desk, soaking into Imperial orders and a stack of scribbles he'd been planning on turning into a sermon, as they gabbled at him like fucking honkbeasts about how they had slain a better warrior than they were, could even hope to be despite their fucking caste, the sacred paint spread on their faces and over nug and around ocular and facegash. 

These fucking papers were a write off, imperial fishbitch lackeys would have to motherfucking deal with that, because he wasn't going to try and get them clean. Maybe he'd burn the whole lot. Set it in flames, and they could flap their maws over that instead.

_And these motherfuckers just kept talking_ , as though they hadn't caught on to his darkening mood. 

Stupid. Stupid ass motherfuckers.

Well, of course the brownblood hadn't reacted immediate when they'd come on him like howlfiends setting on a baabeast alone in a field. There were things you did in a kismesissitude to fuck a motherfucker up, but sending four laughsassains to motherfucking cull a motherfucker was _not one of them_. And even if he hadn't been, coming on a motherfucker when he's just pulling himself from 'coon, four on one may he motherfucking add, is not a fight to be proud of, why would they _ever_ think he would have been ok with that for a bitchtits fucking strengthful enemy like this? The Messiahs put enemies in the paths of the faithful to strengthen them through opposition, as a whetstone to the blade of their hellmirth and that is not the way to treat one. But he can't even say that _second_ part to them because they seem to have missed that lesson _whole and entire_ in their church feeding, can't never make mouth on the _first_ because the loathing he felt for the now deceased rebel whose head is set in front of him was not motherfucking public knowledge and for good reason. Grand Highblood in loathing with a shitblooded mutant rebel? Ain't nobody needed to know that the way the Summoner talked back to him, argued with him on the constant, sassed the everloving fuck out of him for being a dirty fucking clown, tried to change his mind on the hemospectrum, on the need for mercy to those outside the Cult on which he saw no need for, the way the bastard had bitten and fought and clawed his skin to shreds every time they came together, left his paint in streaks and smears when a motherfucker tried to rub it off to humiliate him and see his face bare, ain't no one need to know _shit_ on how it had made his pusher race. 

Because it ain't gonna happen no fucking more.

This is a motherfucking end to all of it and his spade lies shattered _and he can't even do shit on it_.

Since he is Grand Highblood, and this should be a motherfucking joyous occasion to have this bloody stumped trophy on his desk, this dangerous rebel dead with no real harm, he makes the right noises at them. Tells them that he's well fucking pleased, smiles and jokes and gives them leave to _go have some real motherfucking fun_ however they wish in the church carnivals. He hadn't wanted him dead. _He had not wished this on him_. Especially not this unmirthful, unrighteous death lacking in any kind of whimsy, any kind of motherfucking power. It was not befitting. And Rufioh had died probably thinking that this was he had wished, that this had his bloody frond on it, that he had tired of their endless circlings, that maybe his hate had pushed from caliginous to platonic and decided to put an end to a thorny-edged problem by sending the four to slay him when he was vulnerable and weak. That thought makes him want to howl and he bites it back, slams a lid on the seething rage bubbling at the back of his thinkpan and keeps a smile on his face. It's as false as the one painted across his cheeks.

Was that had been what he was thinking as he fought for his life?

That Kurloz had given him up, that he'd sent them to slaughter him wet with sopor and naked with not one weapon ready to grasping frond? _No_ , motherfucking no. Although, he couldn't blame him if he had. That was what it would have to look like, and it's a futile hope to think that maybe the other troll had known he couldn't have ordered this death. At the least, he would have given him a fair fucking chance, even if he was breaking their spade apurpose. That was the least a troll could motherfucking do when it came to the end of a black romance, and he gave his quadrants true and proper care when he had them. Had he known that? Could he have known that? Would he have known him so well as to think that this could not be at his order when they'd clubbed him down?

When the four of them finally leave with a whoop whoop that he returns half-hearted, his pusher not in it, he picks up the head and looks into eyes that will never again look back. His immense hands are strangely gentle, and he just stares into glazed oculars, brown and dim. There's nothing there. Barely even a memory with how the laughsassains almost flattened the side of his skull, distorting his face. Couldn't even bring him a skull proper untouched, maybe by sliding wire around his throat to choke him out. Even at bringing him a full and whole trophy, they'd failed at that.

When he kisses that slack mouth, all he tastes is old, cold blood and the bitter taste of regret.


End file.
